


The Prince, The Whore and The Witcher

by therogueheart



Category: The Witcher, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Blood and Injury, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Boys Kissing, Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Cintran Prince Jaskier, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Feral Behavior, Feral Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, French Kissing, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jealous Behaviour, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Blood, Multi, Neck Kissing, Not Canon Compliant, Prince Jaskier, Prince!Jaskier, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Rough Kissing, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Roughness, Runaway Prince, Secret Identity, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Smut, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Threats of Violence, Time Skips, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whore Jaskier, Whore!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23203948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therogueheart/pseuds/therogueheart
Summary: Geralt, as a rule, did not involve himself in the petty quarrels of men. He ignored the drunkards in the taverns who tried to goad him into a fight, and he refused offers for his protective services - No matter how handsome the reward.Until, naturally, right this instant.Given the seemingly impossible task of finding a missing Prince, Geralt begins a new Path that will change the course of his life forever.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Character(s)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 130





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. Hello. Again.  
> This idea came to me when I was on a binge of the whore!Jaskier trope. I'm taking a break from Starker right now so I'll be working on my Geraskier works more. This is gonna be another biggie, because I am the worst at condensing, but I hope its a good ride. And if its not...Well. Learning curves, right?  
> Please don't be put off by the Character/Other tags; Geraskier is endgame and the other relationships are plot fodder and are very brief.

Geralt, as a rule, did not involve himself in the petty quarrels of men. He ignored the drunkards in the taverns who tried to goad him into a fight, and he refused offers for his protective services - No matter how handsome the reward. 

Of course - He was no heartless beast, either. He had stopped rapes and cut down men who abused their power. But in all his hundreds of years there had never been a single instance wherein he had accepted a contract based upon a human. He was a Witcher, not a jury or judge. His purpose was to rid the world of the beasts that lurked in the darkness - Not the people. 

Until, naturally, now. 

His travels had taken him all across the Continent, from Laevidel to Cidaris and beyond. He knew he had a reputation; strangers approaching him on behalf of lords or kings was no uncommon thing; though it was not usually a battalion's worth of soldiers, flags flying and lion crests flinging gold in the sunshine. 

He had just been leaving a tavern in Kagen, having rid them of a Kikamora when the thunder of hooves broke the quiet of the modest village. He paused en route to the barn, ears keen and eyes alert. He thought briefly it was a stampede, for horses were flighty beasts and simple creatures, but their footfalls were even and measured - A controlled canter. 

They rounded the dirt street and came straight towards him, a hoard of no less than twenty soldiers atop well fed, muscular stallions. Their armour was played with gold, and four banners adorned by the lion of Cintra fluttered in the breeze. They did not come past him, but rather split into a well practised circle around him. 

"Fuck" he uttered, molten eyes scanning each man. He would not be able to fight his way from their midst. Townsfolk gathered on the street, their curiosity and apprehension loud. From the circle of men, a lone knight spurred his horse forwards, until the beast was blowing hot breath on his face. 

"Are you Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher? Known also as the Wolf, Death's White Wolf, the But-" 

"And what is it to you?" Geralt interrupted, before every moniker he'd ever been granted stole the remainder of his day. Frankly, half of them were just embarrassing. _Death's White Wolf_ had been coined by a musician near Nilfgaard, a quail of a man that Geralt had punched no less than four times before leaving. 

"Your presence is hereby requested by Her Majesty, Queen Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra" the man announced, loud for the benefit of the peoples, paying no heed to Geralt's interruption. The Witcher raised a brow. 

"You pronounced 'summoned' wrong" he replied pointedly, glancing around his living fencing. "What does the Queen want with me?" 

"Her Majesty has a contract to offer you. She bid us to inform you a reward of four thousand gold crowns is yours - Provided you find what she seeks". 

And Geralt was no stranger to 'fetch' contracts; though he'd admit they usually came from mages and practitioners of magic, not Queens. Almost every spell and potions required a component from some monster or other, and Geralt often earned as much from selling dead beasts as he did killing them. The price, however...Four thousand gold crowns was a sum he'd never heard in his life.

"What manner of monster requires a twenty man escort? Or does your Majesty merely have little faith in _one_ man returning with good news?" He asked, baring his teeth. To his credit, the guard beneath the helm did not flinch. 

_"The Prince ._

Truly, Geralt ought to have taken the risk of cutting them down and making off. But he respected Queen Calanthe - She was a fierce woman who had no qualms about wading into the battlefield, and could make a man quake in his boots. 

That and he'd just had breakfast. 

As it was he huffed a breath and tipped his head, gaze unwavering as he lifted a hand and brushed his knuckles across the velvety muzzle of the beast before him. The horse flinched an ear and shuffled under its master. 

Everyone knew the prized Lion Cub of Cintra had disappeared three years ago, at the ripe age of fourteen. Rumours were still rifer than monsters and greed; epic tales of being stolen in the night or cursed in all manner of ways. Some even believed him to be invisible. 

"I hunt monsters. I'm not hunting hound" he bid them, frowning as he dropped his hand and turned on his heel to make off. Roach would have stomached her breakfast by now, and he was eager to be off. But the knight put his heels to his horse and the beast jerked forwards, blocking Geralt's path. 

"Do that again" he challenged softly, a brow raising, and the knight's schooled face could not hide the acrid scent of fear. Geralt took hold of the reins, a gentle grip as he stroked along the chiselled face of the beast. It was a true destriere - Heavy-set and hooves like plates. The knight cleared his throat and reached for his breastplate with deliberate exaggeration. 

"Her Majesty bid you come as a personal favour - The purse is sized to replicate her value of your assistance. It is of the utmost importance that Prince Jaskier is found. The future of Cintra, and the Queen, depends on it". 

A very dramatic but unfortunately true statement. The Prince was the only heir to the throne, and without him Cintra was already facing doubt from its allies and opposition from its enemies. The Queen was fighting like a true lion against the tides, but even she could only hold off for a limited time. With her husband dead, the Queen refused to take another to produce an heir in his stead. 

"A personal favour" he murmured thoughtfully. In his lifetime, Geralt had met the Queen only once. A passing through wherein he had taken care of flesh-eating beasts unleashed upon the kingdom by an enemy. The Queen had bid him to stay at the Palace for a night, and Geralt had eaten and drank until he felt fat and warm and had left with a rich purse and the current Roach. 

The knight shuffled his horse again and Geralt let the leather slip through his fingers as he reached for the parchment the knight held warily out to him, like he thought Geralt might bite his hand for it. The Witcher gave a low hum at the seal, and tore it open. The hand was elegant, and written by the Queen herself. 

It was written quite like a summons, but not quite a demand. It made the corner of Geralt's mouth quirk as he looked down at it. The Queen knew better than to make a demand of him; but was no less fierce in her persuasion. It was brief, more an invite to Cintra to discuss the contract further. 

A purse of four thousand gold crowns would set Geralt for _years_. If he was wise and saved his coin whilst taking other contracts, it could well set him up for a decade to come. He stared at it for a short while longer, and then rolled the parchment, handing it back to the knight, who was looking further and further nervous the longer Geralt left him to stew. 

"You will wait for me to tack my mare. We travel at my pace - By my terms". It was unlikely anyone would be fool enough to attack a full rank of armoured knights _and_ a Witcher, but, well. Geralt had learned some people truly were that stupid. It would also not do to tire Roach too fast if he was to spend the next however many months or years roaming the Continent for a Prince that could well be dead. 

The knight gave a curt nod, the others remaining stoic and impassive, and Geralt turned away from them all. He'd already packed his meagre bags, and it would take him little time to get Roach ready for travel. Though if he took a little longer, just to keep them waiting, well...Nobody but him needed to know that. 

Roach snorted at him when he took his time adjusting her saddle pad, and he gave her a low, soothing hum in response. "I suppose if we do manage to complete this wild hunt, it means oats and good fodder for you" he mused. Perhaps even new tack, since monster guts had a tendency to disagree with even the finest leather. 

That, at the least, seemed to appease the mare, and Geralt led her from the stalls and out into the weak sunshine, ignoring the waiting knights as he mounted and adjusted his saddle packs. He knew the way to Cintra from here and so he didn't bother to await them, spurring Roach into a light jog. It was a loose trot, just short of a canter, and he watched the knights put their heels to their horses sharply to spring after him. 

Roach seemed as dismayed with the company as he, baring her teeth at a knight's mare when he nudged her a touch too close. The other mare pinned her ears and was like to respond when the knight jerked her rein, moving her aside. Geralt couldn't help but feel a touch smug - Power clearly resided here, in their fear of him. 

They made good pace for the first day, words unspoken until Geralt turned Roach from the path and across the grasslands. The knights followed silently, though several wore looks of confusion. When the land was dry and even, Geralt pulled Roach to a halt and dropped from her side, loosening her girth. "We will make camp here for the night" he informed them gruffly, tugging at his stirrups. 

They clearly disagreed, but were not about to voice their concerns, stiffly discounting their horses and thoroughly getting in his way as they began to unload their saddle bags. They had clearly been staying at inns and taverns on their journey to find him, but had the good sense to pack at least bed rolls and some camping equipment. 

One knight scurried about, gathering every single scrap of a twig that could go towards a fire, and another shed his armour and another drew lengths of rope from his pack, hobbling the horses together so they were all connected. Geralt largely ignored them, unpacking Roach before laying his own roll, glowering at any knight who came across his path. 

When Roach was hobbled and rubbed down and his own camp was set, Geralt settled on his roll, fingertips mapping the edge of the sword as he watched the men. They had made camp in a crescent moon around his own, the fire in the middle where it's warmth could be shared. The one man had gathered an admittedly impressive amount of kindling in this grassy scape, and the heat warmed Geralt's forearms. 

They had thought to bring rations, loaves of bread and strips of jerky meat packed into each man's bag. Geralt silently approved; they were not like to find more than birds and rabbits here, and he was not hunting for a hoard. His own supply was freshly stocked, and he was pondering how much of it to eat tonight when a knight approached him, bowl in hand. 

"We will stay at an inn when we reach Ortagoa" the knight announced, setting the bowl at Geralt's heel. He hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with his appointment of delivering the news. "It's safer. And we can restock. Rest the horses properly". Confidence failing him, the knight turned on his heel, back to the huddle of men laughing and talking around the flames. 

The bowl contained a hearty portion of bread and jerky meat, a sniff declaring it was likely venison or boar. Geralt uttered a low hum and set his swords aside. Not depleting his own rations suited him just fine. When he stuffed a strip into his mouth it became solidified as venison, smoked and salted. The bread was relatively fresh. 

He wondered idly what it was like; the relatively rich and coddled life of a knight. Good armour, good food, willing women. The only downside being that you were the first fucker to die in any war that came your way. 

They largely ignored him, though not out of spite but fear, talking and jesting amongst themselves and watching his every move with curiosity. He turned in early for the night, and when he lay down his head their chatter quieted considerably. 

Morning, and he arose much the same time as several of them, wandering some distance away to piss before he returned, chewing mint leaves and packing his bedroll. The rest stirred when he began to tack Roach, kicked awake by their companions and roused into action.

He awaited them with relative patience as they packed camp and tacked their horses and stuffed themselves into their armour, mounting when they were all more or less doing the same. Roach ignored the bustle as much as he, her neck stretched and relaxed when he set his heels to her side. 

It was perhaps just short of a three week ride, if they made good pace and travelled each day. Preferably from early morn to dusk. Geralt pondered it as he plotted the route in his mind, from Ortagoa to Artré to Cintra's Capitol. Their journey was much like the shape of an L, to cater to the comforts of the knights. 

And so the days passed, in much the same fashion. They arose not long after dawn each morning and tacked their mounts, travelling strong until luncheon, where they would pause for an hour to rest the horses and eat. On the fifth day of travel, Geralt began to hunt.

Rabbits and birds at first, when the land was more grass than forest. Then wild pheasants and fish, when their path crossed a stream. The knights were not particularly skilled at hunting or fishing, but one man had an aptitude for fishing and at least two were skilled enough at using a bow on rabbits. The rest were easily taught to skin and spit whatever had been caught.

They began to grow bolder during the long days of travel, talking to him more and more despite his frequent lack of response. Compliments on his hunting, questions on his origin and talents, pestering for tales of his exploits. 

Ortagoa could not come quick enough. Geralt's rations were low, though he still had a manageable inventory of dried stag and a recent collection of forest mushrooms. Roach was grumpy and in need of good hay, and Geralt was overdue for a bath, as were the others. Their ripening scents was a daily and constant offence on his nose.

The knights largely left their horses to the stable boy, with only a few staying behind to unpack their mounts and the others striding for the tavern like it was their personal mission. Geralt doubted the inn would have enough rooms for them all, and resigned himself to just the chance of a bath and sleeping in the stall with Roach. 

When she was unpacked and he was almost done tending to her legs and hooves, footsteps strode purposefully his way and he turned to see one of the knights, who tossed something at him. He snapped it from the air and felt the shape of a key against his palm. 

"Room five, Witcher. Anything else is on your own coin" the knight informed him, and Geralt gave a low hum, brow raised. They had paid for his room? It was most likely that Queen Calanthe had given them an additional purse for his requirements. 

His room, when he entered it, was ample enough. A bed and a hearth, with a small basin on a wooden stand he could do enough of a strip wash with. He set down his belongings with a sigh and shed his heavier layers, before making his way back down. 

The barman eyed him with both wariness and curiosity upon his approach, but greeted him warmly enough, Geralt's coin enough to garner him a small tub and a hot plate of potatoes, carrots, cabbage and chicken. The meal he ate quickly and the bath he spent in luxury, soaking in the hot waters and scrubbing his skin pink. 

Five small villages onwards, and the owner of the small tavern they stopped at for hot food took one look at Geralt and begged him to take care of a Drowner in their large water pond. The knights all quieted, listening and watching intently with none of their earlier caution. 

"We've not much, but none of our men have been successful in ridding it. We cannot fish the pond nor farm the weeds. We cannot collect water. I can offer you fifty silver and a pig". 

"A pig?" Geralt repeated, brow lifting. What use had he of a _pig_? 

"Witchers eat more'n most, so I hear. I will butcher it myself and what you cannot eat I will salt and dry for your travels". 

Geralt tilted his head, and accepted. 

It took him but the night, and when he returned, sodden and a little grosser than he had left, the knights were all still awake, their questions endless. They bribed him for details with ale and leftovers from supper, and he strip washed himself in a trough before bed. 

To his surprise, they let him sleep in the next morning, dressed and chatting socially when he clambered down the stairs. It cost them a few hours travel, but he was thankful for it as they saddled their mounts and rode out. There had been so much dried pork leftover he had to purchase a third saddle bag. 

He shared some with the others, a few days passed, and taught them how to spear fish when they came across the Antré rivers, the knights and Witcher enjoying a feast of trout that night, and some rather sour but edible enough red berries for dessert. 

Another small village, and another contract. Though this was not like most. "Tis some sort of wolf beast" the Elderman mused, thumbing his beard. Contracts for pesky wildlife were not uncommon, and Geralt accepted easy enough. A handful of coppers were better than nothing and he took it while the knights set up a small camp in a farmer's field. 

'Some sort of wolf beast' turned out to be a roaming feral werewolf, and Geralt snarled and cursed through the entire ordeal, sustaining a sizeable wound to the thigh. When the beast was dead he kicked it a few times out of principle, and dragged it's corpse back to the village. 

The Elderman looked suitably surprised when he threw the corpse onto his porch, scowling. "Oh my. That is...More than a wolf" he mused, eyeing the corpse like it might spring up and maul him. Geralt was more likely to do so than the corpse. 

"I shall see that you are paid accordingly, Witcher. Fret not. And...How does one dispose of a dead werewolf?" 

"Bury it or burn it" Geralt huffed, and turned away. Before they left the village, a haggard woman came scurrying up and handed him a purse. Alongside the handful of coppers, three silvers. It was hardly a rewarding effort, but some coin was better than no coin. 

Cintra looked closer each day, and Geralt doubted more and more that this contract was worth taking. If the Prince had been missing for three years, with no ransom and no demands...It was incredibly likely he was dead. A revenge killing or a plotted attack. Nobody would go through the trouble of stealing an important figure just to hide them away forever. 

The closer to Cintra they got, the more the knights talked about the purpose of his journey. 

"I say she killed him herself or hired men to take him away. She always wanted a daughter, not a son". 

"More the like that someone stole him for ransom and the little shit got away. Do you remember his 13th name day?" 

"More's the like he tripped and fell or got mauled by a beast on one of his run-aways". 

Geralt held little hope and expectation. He learned over the course of the two month travel that the Prince had been...Spirited, to say the least. High strung and a downright little shit, at most. Queen Calanthe had apparently had her work cut out in raising him. 

Cintra had changed little since his last visit. It had expanded, more villagers and more farming land and the castle seemed larger than ever before; but his memories told him that the majority was as it had been. The place reeked of magic and it's users, but wherever they were, the crowded streets were not it. 

One villager spat in his path and shouted "Take his head!" As they made towards the castle, and while Geralt ignored it with a glare, a nearby knight wheeled his horse and brandished his sword. 

"Heed your tongue if you wish to keep it!" The knight warned, and the progression was quiet from street to castle gate, where the huge wooden doors opened for their arrival with a groan. The show hooves of the knights' horses flattered on the stone cobbles as they crossed the large courtyard. 

No sooner had they dismounted, a cry was barked out and the doors atop the slope of steps to the looming architecture opened, revealing a tall woman in gold breeches and a red chemise, arms folded as she watched them. At his side the knights immediately stooped, and Geralt gave a low hum. 

The Queen. 

Roach was taken from him by an attending guard, and he bid her to behave as he ascended the steps, coming to a halt a pace from the Queen. Her gaze was as stark as he remembered, cool and unimpressed. She was a full two heads shorter than he, but her scowl could match his on any given day. 

"Witcher" she greeted, and he eyed her blandly. 

"Queen" he echoed with equal disinterest, and her face broke into a warm and marvellous grin. 

"You've not changed, you brute. But perhaps you've more scars than when we last met" she mused, and took him by the bicep, steering him through the gilded doors and into a grand, golden hall. "I didn't think you'd come. I half expected my men to come back in bone boxes". 

"I'd just eaten" he grunted, and she laughed as she hauled him along, one of the only (if not _the_ only) people who would dare to do so. Up a flight of stairs, then two, and on the third floor she shoved open the door to a room, and pushed him inside. 

"You stink. Clean up, I had fresh clothing procured. I'm demanding a lot of you, so I ought to feed you before presenting my plea". And with little room for argument she shut the door, leaving Geralt to listen to the fading heels of her riding boots against the stone floor. 

He shook his head in bemusement and did as told, sinking into the bath when it was drawn and scrubbing himself until he could not smell sweat nor dirt nor horse. The maids had brought soap made from goat milk and rose oil and he bathed himself liberally with it before stepping out of the water.

Using a linen to dry himself he inspected the clothes. To his surprise they were remarkably plain for having been selected to entertain Royalty. A plain, dark blue chemise and black riding pants, a pair of thick socks and a black, plain doublet with leatherskin shoulders. 

He dressed and left the doublet, warm enough with the crackling lamps and no doubt that there would be a roaring hearth in the feasting hall. When he stepped out, a young maid was awaiting him, and she flushed when he stepped out. 

"M'Lady awaits you in the hall. I'm to take you, if you please" she announced, and he motioned for her to move. She scurried along, presumably to set a pace he would find acceptable, and it took three flights of stairs and many lefts to reach the hall. 

He was right. When he arrived there was a large fire warming the room, and the Queen sat at the banquet table, a goblet of wine in one hand. She waved him to join her when the maid scuttled off and he took the seat to her right, sinking onto a plush, plump cushion. 

"Bring the food!" She barked, when he was settled. From his side a young man stepped forwards and filled his goblet almost to the brim with a rich, spicy red wine. He sipped it and was pleased by it's warmth. He preferred ales and dark wines, but was not going to complain about free drink. 

No sooner had he set his goblet down, a side door opened and several servants came out, laden with trays and plates. Geralt watched the offerings being placed down in front of him, eyeing the selection with appreciation. 

A thick leg of mutton, glazed with sauce and herbs. A shoulder of pork, rich and still crackling from the heat of the flames. Bowls and plates of various vegetables, steamed and roasted and seasoned and sauced. The smells were almost enough to have him salivating like a dog. 

The servants deposited the plates, casting him surreptitious glances at him, before scuttling out of the hall. Geralt may be a monster killer, but even in Kaer Morhen they had taught him manners, and so he sat patiently in his seat, luxuriating in the scents as the Queen filled her plate. When she had taken her fill and raised a fork of mutton to her mouth, Geralt filled his own. 

“Do you usually feed guests this well, or is this part of the bribery?” He asked, when half his large plate was meat and the other half vegetables. At his side the Queen snorted like a mare and barked a laugh, side-eyeing him in amusement. 

“Its both a nod to the fact you’re built like a bear, Witcher, and part of the bribery. But can you blame me? I know I will need to lavish you for you to even consider this contract” she pointed at him with a fork, still speared with carrot, before placing it into her mouth. Geralt gave a low sound of consideration. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” 

“That you are” she agreed, still eyeing him like he was some amusing little plaything. Like he was a dumb little creature, stumbling about for her own pleasure. It prickled him, but it did not poke the beast within, did not make him want to snap and snarl as mere looks from some others could. He supposed ti was because he knew that was the air with which the Queen lived - She gave not a fuck about anything. 

They ate in relative silence for their first plate, enjoying the rich flavours and the thick aromas. To Geralt’s surprise he was not the only one who loaded his plate for a second time, the Queen piling hers not unlike the first, eyeing him like she dared him to comment. He did, just not on what she expected him to. 

“You can start selling me the contract” he noted, sharp teeth piercing the crackled flesh with a satisfying sound. She arched a brow as she chewed, as though to say ‘Oh, really? I have your _permission_?’ But she smirked none the less and washed her mouthful down with wine, before looking put-upon and weary for the first time since his arrival. 

“Jaskier went missing three years ago” she began, and he hummed. He knew as well as any other man that Cintra’s cub had disappeared. For nigh a year, it was all the entire Continent could speak about. So much so that Geralt had retreated to the outskirts of civilisation, desperate not to hear the chatter. 

“He would be seventeen, now. And before you open your damned mouth, I _know_. I know the odds of him being alive. But I cannot hold Cintra against my enemies much longer without an heir. I cannot hold my allies at my side for much longer without incentive. And the most important above all of that, is that _I miss my son_ ”. 

She sounded fierce when she said it, but he could _smell_ the sorrow. He remembered well her outburst. Raging war and search parties across the Continent, rumours of her losing her temper on such a daily basis the cleaners stopped bothering to sweep up all the torn paintings and the smashed decor. Her wrath and her sorrow had made Cintra a volatile, dark place for the longest of times. 

“You are the best person on the Continent to stand even a chance at finding out the truth. And I do not just mean because you are a Witcher. You have skills. Determination. Your brain resides in your skull, and not in your balls” she continued, and he couldn’t help inclining his head. He was hardly _celibate_. 

“I understand the scale of what I am asking. And I promise you, four thousand crowns is only the beginning. I will give you four years. If you do not return with him, or any news, by then, I will presume him lost to the Gods and I will stake my availability for marriage”. She scowled as she said it, and he knew her sacrifice. She had loved King Eist with all of her heart, and had vowed after his death to love no other man. 

“Three years” he repeated. It sounded like a long time, but they both knew the truth of it. The Continent could take years to travel, even at a solid pace. And he could spend the rest of his life dancing around the lost Prince, if he was truly still alive. Geralt could leave one place and the hidden Prince could arrive just a day later. The Continent was vast. 

To say nothing of it they had taken him out of the Continent. Who knew what lands lay beyond the endless ocean? Over the unclimbable mountains?

“I will give you the purse, if you accept the contract. I cannot stop you from just taking it and living your merry life, but I believe you have more honour than that”. She stared him down as she said it, like her gaze could give her words conviction. He wanted to ask how, when they had met only once prior. When whispers of _Butcher_ and _freak_ followed him like footprints. But he did not. “If I cannot give you an answer in four years, I will still return to tell you of my failure” Geralt noted, staring deeply into the rich, red depths of his wine. She was right. He did have honour, morals. Despite the general consensus and deliberate attempts to stake otherwise. 

“So you accept, then?” And she looked lively, animated. She sat up straighter and her eyes glittered, leaning towards him with anticipation, wine goblet forgotten in her grasp. Geralt heaved a sigh, but could not let her stew any longer, giving a curt and solitary nod. He heard her sharp intake, her nails against the side of her goblet.

Her hand against his shoulder was like a brand, light but spreading wildfire through his veins. She looked like if she were any other woman she might cry, earnest and gentle in her gaze. It was perhaps the most vulnerable he had seen her, the flames gone from her eyes, her hackles flat and smooth. 

Perhaps they were more alike than he had ever previously considered. 

“Thank you” she noted, quiet in the deafening silence around them, and then she raised her goblet, clanking it against his, and blew out a breath. “And if you do find him...May the Gods be with you” she breathed. Geralt eyed her warily over the rim as he took a sip, and she grinned at him, feral and delighted. 

“He’s a fucking _nightmare_ ”. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those of you who expressed interest in this fic - I know the first chapter is pretty vague and kinda...Crap. But I wanted (despite the spoilers in the tags) to set it up without entirely giving away the following events of the fic. I'm going to try and keep as close to character as possible in this work, but with more in-depth character development and exploration. Obviously this work takes great liberty with canon events and follows more so the depictions in the TV series than the game or book.  
> Largely because I have't played/read them. RIP.  
> I'm also using the official show concept map, but I'm taking an additional liberty with it and throwing in a few places that don't exist.

Calanthe insisted on keeping him for the night, assured him Roach would be fed oats until she was round and sluggish and that he could make use of anything he desired within the castle. More food, another bath, perhaps one of her pretty handmaids. Or even a stable-boy, if that was his preference. Geralt kept his expression neutral throughout her speech, chewing his bite of pork until it was tasteless mush in his mouth. It was not that he was ashamed of having no discrimination in terms of his lovers, he just...Didn't make a habit of discussing it. Or...Anything, really. People so rarely wanted to actually talk to a Witcher. All of their interest lay in stories and insults and on the odd occasion, finding out if his prick was as monstrous and enhanced as the rest of him. 

Geralt retreated to his room when between them, they managed to clear the entirety of the meal. He was surprised by how much the Queen ate - Not because she was a woman, but because she had a figure that erred on slender. Whilst she had thick thighs and wide hips, her waist and stomach were tucked in and flatter. He didn't know where her stomach had room to host such a volume of food. He had always scoffed at the forced delicateness of the ladies at the court, how they would nibble at portions barely practical for a babe before raiding their own pantries once the night was over. He pitied them and the narratives the esteemed wealth threw at them. 

The bed was a true thing of luxury, softer than anything he'd ever lay on. Plush and vaguely misted with lavender infused water. At first it was strange - He was so used to sleeping on grass, rocks, dirt and the poor attempts at beds found in inns that he felt like he was sinking, being sucked down amongst the layers of blankets and stuffed rushes. But when that feeling adjusted he found himself resenting every rock and every wood-slab bed. Every night spent on sparse grass or a thinly stuffed bedroll. He lay his head atop the pillows and found that within moments he was drifting in the gentle lull of sleep. 

He slept soundly, for once not limiting himself to a sleep more like meditation but _sinking_ into the restfulness of it, the welcome depths he rarely allowed himself to explore. He still woke at dawn, alert and ready for the day, but he felt heavy and thoroughly refreshed. Better than he had after sleeping for the longest of times. When he left his room, the castle was barely stirring but for the kitchen maids and those with duties than began with the rising of the sun. They eyed him when he passed with curiosity, but hostility was little to none. Calanthe could have a silver tongue, but she was not one to plant hate where she could better plant an ally. 

On her mention, she rose four hours passed dawn, entering the great hall in a basic linen blouse and breeches, her hair a tumble of bronze and her face free of powder and beetle rouge. "You look chipper for such an hour" she observed as she approached, and then she gave an unwomanly sniff. "It's unnatural". Any other man might've taken it for a needle, but Geralt knew it had more to do with her preference for sleep than it did his species. He offered her a mild once over in return his brow lifting slightly. At that she gave him the middle finger and sank heavily into her throne besides him. 

"Breakfast!" She hollered, such power in her lungs that he cringed. "And so fucking help me, if there's lemon-fish plattered I shall batter you to death with my own crown!". 

To great relief, there was no lemon fish. Breakfast was thick, crispy strips of bacon, sizzling eggs with round, bright yolks and bowls of fruit topped with fermented cream and milk. _Yogurt_ , Geralt noted. A fairly new conception only ever (and even then, rarely so) heard of in the courts. They ate in a silence that was now companionable, the Queen listing in her chair and the Witcher pondering on where to even begin his search. Of all the shady and seedy people and places he knew that might have mind to harbour such a prize. 

"Come with me" Calanthe announces, when Geralt's goblet is empty and she's using her tongue to pick bacon from between her teeth. The Queen rises, and Geralt can recognise each sign of discomfort she displayed as she lead the way through the large palace, winding up stairs and through hallways until the scents began to fade into a blatant lack of life. Dust and mildew and a general sense of old and undisturbed. The closed door she stops outside cannot stop the lacklustre scent of abandonment leeching from within, but below that is...

"This was his room" he observed, and she looked visibly surprised, before giving a grim nod. 

"I've heard Witchers have a nose better than a hound. I thought perhaps if you had a shirt, or his bed sheet or... _Something_ you might use to recognise him. I've had painters make likenesses of what he may appear as now, but...Who knows. They could have dyed his hair. Disfigured his face". 

_They_. 

Calanthe is under the firm belief her son was taken. Geralt said nothing aside from a deep, short hum, and entered the room when she opened the door. It was tasteful, in the same gold and grey décor as the rest of the castle, with rich red splashed throughout. The signs of a teenage boy are still littered, presumably undisturbed since his disappearance. A hairbrush on the vanity table. Sheets of music on the desk by the window. A door to the closet still open and revealing lines of fabrics rich with colour. The Queen stayed in the doorway, her jaw tight and expression set against displaying emotion. 

Geralt roamed the room, acute eyes sweeping every inch. The dust was cloying, musky, but the rich layer of age did nothing to completely eradicate the scents below. A faint hint of floral perfume, largely from the bed and the closet. The whiff of something slightly sweet, something human and living. It was not an unpleasant scent, faint and covered though it was. Geralt approached the bed and gripped a pillow carefully by the edge, raising the fabric to his nose. The scent was richer here, stronger, clinging to the fabric and the pillow stuffing despite being stagnant. 

The bed sheet held a similar trail, and Geralt looked up at the Queen, withdrawing a knife slow enough for her to object. She didn't, watching him merely from her place as he cut a neat chunk of the bed sheet out, and another from the pillow. He stuffed them carefully into a pouch on his belt, and moved to the closet. The clothes were thick with dust and the scent of linen powder. It was not worth the edge of his knife to take anything, so he moved to the drawers at the side of the closet. Rows of trousers, breeches and smalls. Geralt raised a crumpled pair, sniffing delicately. They must've been worn and stuffed back in, the human scent thick around the thighs. Geralt took a cut, and grunted when he saw the look Calanthe cast him. 

"Scent is richer in certain places". She still arched a brow, but said nothing as he added the cut to his pouch. When he raised it for an inhale, he knew he had enough for the scent to stick. He tied a tight knot on the pouch and let it hang, making his way back to the doorway. Calanthe looked a little misted on the eyes, but to her credit she held herself with as much steel in her spine as she would any other time. Geralt had the prickling sensation that she might succumb to the urge to be nostalgic and to share her emotions like many did, and he leapt into the silence before she could. 

"If I cannot find him within four years, I'll return regardless" he offered gruffly, knowing he'd already said it but desperate to avoid an overspill of emotion he wouldn't know how to comfort her through. Calanthe simply nodded, turning away from him and striding down the hallway.

"Wine!" She yelled as she disappeared around the corner, and Geralt cocked his head, before he turned, looking back into the room. Something glinted around one of the posts on the bed, and Geralt stepped back inside, walking up to let his fingertips brush along two delicate chains, interlocked. The metal had been painstakingly carved into a lion, twisted to snap at a lark flying overhead. Geralt unclasped the latch and tucked the accessory into his pocket, before making his leave. Whilst he donned the rest of his clothing, a timid looking man approached the room, curiosity shining in his eyes when he handed Geralt a set of small, rolled of parchments. 

"These are some samples of what the Prince may look like" the man offered, making his leave with several backwards glances. Geralt watched him leave with muted annoyance, and dumped the scrolls on the bed, picking up one and unravelling it. To his surprise, the sketch was not far off the portraits of the Prince that Geralt had spotted in the hallways. But the face depicted was older, the jaw stronger, the shoulders broader. It was enough to stoke his curiosity and he unrolled the others, molten eyes scanning the papers. They were clearly done by at least two artists, some of the sketching styles different, and Geralt left them on the bed when he strode for the doors. 

"Your - Mr. - Uh...Witcher? Ser?" The voice was feminine and unsure, and Geralt turned to find a kitchen maid scurrying down the hallways, frantic to catch up with him. The saddle bag she carries is instantly familiar, but the annoyance at his belongings being taken dulls considerably when the fresh scent of food hits his nose. Bread and fruit and dried meat. "Her Majesty bid you be sent off with a full pack. Beggin' your pardon, Witcher, but I had the stable boy fetch a pack from your mare". 

Geralt can't exactly be angry, flipping open the flap of the pack to find it filled to the brim with neatly wrapped parcels of food. If he rationed it and balanced it between foraging and hunting, it would last him a week, perhaps even longer. An extravagant amount of food, by anyone who'd ever lived on the road's standards. This would cost him a pretty penny if he were to purchase it on his travels. "Thank you" he voiced, earnest as he closed the pack and slung it over his shoulder. It felt comfortingly heavy, and the plump woman gave him a warm smile, before it morphed into one of vague surprise, and she snapped her fingers. 

"Aye! Of course. Here". From her pocket, a round, fat blob of cloth is pulled, and Geralt can recognise well the sight of a coin purse. Even if one so abundantly _full_ isn't such a familiar sight. Four thousand gold crowns. He can't help but fondle it a little when she hands it over, eyes narrowing in appreciation of its weight and heft. He thanks her again as she turns, bidding him safe travels even as he hurries back to what is no doubt the largest kitchen Geralt can image. The Queen has an appetite Geralt fears could perhaps rival his own. 

Roach awaits him outside, tacked and held at arms length by a stable boy that side-eyes her warily, like he's been bitten one too many times to risk looking away. Roach is an affectionate mare, but her temper was the flip of a coin and it had taken even Geralt some months to garner a steady relationship with her. Oft times, she really did not help the stereotype that women were volatile creatures. Calanthe stood at the base of the steps, looking braced as she watched him descend. He slug the bag over Roach's rump and attached it to her saddle, offering her a pat to the flank as he turned to the Queen. 

"Ride safe, Witcher. I didn't pay you the worth of a village for you to die on the road" Calanthe instructed him with steel behind her words. Geralt offered nothing except a soft hum, checking Roach's girth and stirrup length before he gripped the saddle pommel and set his foot in an iron, rising to her back in a graceful leap. A far cry when when he had first ever sat on a horse. He'd landed on his ass far too many times to be anything but humiliating. Roach whickered as he settled, though these days he could not tell if it was excitement to be going, or regret at leaving a warm stall and fresh oats. 

"If...If you do. Find him. Be sure the first thing you tell him is I never stopped looking" Calanthe added, just as he set his heels to her flanks. Geralt was not going to say that. This was not some folly tale sung at a banquet. He was no knight in gleaming armour. This would be no fairtytale.

He rode hard from Cintra, Kept to the coast, where the breeze carried the scent of salt and where the sun beat down on his shoulders as he guided Roach through fields of wildgrass and rushes. It was a long shot - That the Prince would be kept so close to Cintra, and his search along the coastline lent him nothing but haughty laughs and sullen stares. Even the letter given to him by Calanthe, to grant him access on his search, only earned him reluctant compliance. Nobody believed the Prince was still alive - And nobody believed a Witcher was the one to find him. But the coast was warm and even bore a contract or two, and he left the centre of Cintra for its outer forests, winding Roach through the trees and the sprawling roots. 

Bodies were buried here, but none had the scent of the Prince soaked into their bones. He pushed the earth back over them and stood with a grunt, making back for his horse. And so it continued, from Cintra to Nilfgaard, where the lands were more hostile, more violent. Nilfgaard had always been a volatile place, rife with internal dispute, most of the land overfarmed and dark with pollution. Nilfgaard held no answers for him either, and by then almost half a year had passed. Each tavern held nothing but stony glares and the threat of swords, each farmhouse held nothing but misery and bared teeth. It saddened him somewhat, seeing what had once been a powerful kingdom, sink into the bitterness of poverty and power struggles. Seeing the common people suffer and wither for the greed and whims of the rich. 

"Prince Jaskier? The dead one?" One haggard old woman furrowed her brow, juggling a fussing babe on her hip and a squealing piglet in her free hand. The beast's sow refused to suckle, and to keep her meal for the winter, the farmer's wife was to feed them by hand, every four hours. "That Queen. A true mother, holding such hopes". She looked to her babe as she said it, gaze warm and fond, before looking back at the Witcher. "Emhyr is not the type to keep such a bounty secret. Whoever took him, it was not by Nilfgaard's order". Geralt wasn't entirely so sure - Nilfgaard's allyship with Cintra had certainly tainted the day Calanthe refused a young Emhyr's offer of hand. 

Geralt left her with a disk of silver for her troubles, and turned Roach on her hocks. When people began to talk about his presence and soldiers began to comb the streets in search of him, he rode Roach onwards and away from the land of shadows. Virovaro was nothing but a smoked out wasteland, burned to the ground by Nilfgaard some twenty years prior. Now it was inhabited only by the truly desperate and outcast - Opiate addicts and outlaws and those who'd crawled here to die. They had nothing for him but wild eyes and closed hearts. 

He kept his wits about him here, relying more on his senses and his skills. The few people he spoke to either spoke bald lies and conspiracies, or couldn't speak at all, their eyes rolling and their minds reeling amidst the powerful effects of poppy milk and thistle water. He stayed only long enough to be sure the Prince was not here, before spurring Roach on faster than he had from Nilfgaard. Such places always itched under his skin, hyperaware that he could well be one of them. That if he were less of a man, his life would likely drive him to such bleakness and escape. 

He stopped in a small wheat village not eight days' ride on to rest Roach, mindful of her legs. In her water bucket he slipped three drops of healing elixir. He ought not to - She was but a beast, not by far the first Roach, but she was perhaps one of those he was most fond of. He paid for a bucket of oats and a bale of hay, and sank into what served as a tavern in such a small place - The bakery. The smell of ground wheat and bread was stifling here, but they served a good ale, and found a bed for the night with one of the farmers. 

"Is that why ye'r 'ere?" One of the men asked him nodding to the letter than Geralt tucked back into a pouch after asking the locals to no avail. He looked up, stared, then grunted and picked up his ale. "Mm" the man said again, fingers reaching up to scratch at his beard thoughtfully. Geralt knew well the signs that someone wasn't going to leave him alone, so he sighed, gesturing to the seat opposite him. The portly man sank into it with relief, flour on his hands and along his jaw. 

"Dead, though, in'hi? Four years n'some ago" the man continued. "S'a'plenty of impostors, though. From 'ere to Kaer Morhen I'd wager there's more'n a hundred whores with 'is name". Geralt raised an unimpressed brow, thoroughly unconvinced this conversation was going anywhere. "Some better'n others, for sure". 

The man appeared only to want to talk of more conspiracies, and Geralt listened with half an ear before finally growing tired of superstitions and ideas. He rose when the man was distracted, and left for his bed. Along the way, though, he couldn't help but think of the possibility. Perhaps, indeed, the best way to hide someone was to place them in plain sight. Especially in a role where fancy played a huge part. Whores were renowned for adopting the likeness of others. Nobody blinked twice at a whore parading around as Royalty or a fairytale character. Much the same with performers and travelling acts. 

He supposed he ought to hold the notion to some truth. Especially if they were keeping the Prince hidden by moving him around. Geralt lay on the bed of hay in the barn, listening to Roach shuffling around in the stall besides him. He'd have cursed the task, but Calanthe had given him a fortune for an impossible ask, no strings, no paying it back if he failed. He'd have been stupid not to take it. Grumbling under his breath, the Witcher rolled onto his side and used his arm as a pillow, shutting his eyes to the moonlight that streamed through a rafter. In the morning, he would broaden his search. 

And if that meant visiting a few brothels and travelling acts along the way? 

Well. So be it. 

Morning brings travel and no results, and the morning after that, bleeding into another week on the road. A week became two, three, and the Continent simply stretched out before him like a fat housecat, unwilling to tell him anything or guide him on his travels. Geralt took great care of the pack containing the scents, keeping it safe from the rains that would wash away the rich floral notes and the mud that would bury it underneath the stink of earth and shit. Before the midst of each town he would raise it to his nose and breathe deep, locking it in his mind. 

He didn't do it often, but sometimes he found himself wondering about the boy that the scent belonged to. The portraits in the palace had depicted a chubby, round little baby with a thick head of brown hair, a smile so wide it almost seemed disproportionate. A short, wobbly toddler posed amongst stuffed animals and finery. A slender young man, growing into his form, with graceful youth and confidence in his eyes. The Prince had been gifted with a remarkably normal form, symmetrical features and no disfigurements or pitfalls. He had been kind and lively, with a singing voice the courts had proclaimed would make him famous one day. 

It was a pity the Prince had become famous, just not for his voice. 

If he had been taken away, how terrifying had that been? Was it a betrayal? Someone close to him who'd lured him away into someone else's clutch, or stolen him for his own purposes? Such a thing would probably be near impossible to prove, though if the Prince was dead, it would be a moot thing to prove anyway. And if the Prince had run away...There wasn't a whole lot Geralt could do about that, except attempt to bring him back in the instance he was alive and found. And if he ran away again?

Geralt wasn't going to spend the next hundred years chasing after a runaway Prince, no matter how handsome the reward. He was a Witcher, not a Nanny. He'd take a slow ride back to Cintra, tell Calanthe he was alive, roughly where he'd last been seen, and go back to his true Path. Vesemir would flog him if Geralt forsook his true calling to gallivant about the Continent like some sort of gallant knight, chasing a runaway Prince. Geralt was like to let him, if he ever entertained such folly. He was doing this task because it had been asked of him by a...Respected figure. Because the coin she'd offered was enough to set him for months to come. Armour when he needed it, ingredients for potions, fodder for his horse. It was good sense, nothing more. 

He thought about searching the Korath Desert, but it was a wasteland of sand and skeletons. Both perfect for hiding someone and impossible to survive. The only people that dared to brave its barren expanse were the Bone Men. They had skin like jet and wore nought but white linens and scrappy furs, decorated themselves in bones and ink paint. They didn't speak the common tongue, though Geralt knew a little of their language from the books at Kaer Morhen. The Bone Men were neither concern nor threat to anyone in the Continent, though. They hadn't been seen on brown soil for almost forty years, and hadn't been over-present prior to that. They'd have nothing to do with a Cintran cub. 

Geralt grumbled a sigh and put his heels to Roach. He was in the outskirts of the forestry, good for hunting, and his stock needed replenishing. It would cost him nothing to stop for a day or two to fill his packs. He found a suitable camping space and did just that, spending the majority of the following day and evening hunting game, gutting and drying furs and meat. The only trouble he ran across was a scrawny fox, ballsy for its size and starving for a meal. Geralt threw it some fat scraps, and then threw his sword at its heels to spook it away when it was done, mindful that it was like to come back in the night and steal his haul. When his packs were full, he turned Roach back towards civilisation.

A year and the best of a second had passed when the skies began to darken and the wind began to nip. Winter was here, and on any other, Geralt would be riding Roach for Kaer Morhen at the first scent of a storm on the wind. Kaer Morhen was the second to last 'founded civilisation' North, where only Kovir at the very head of the Continent bested it for the claim. To anyone else it would sound stupid, heading _towards_ the cold and the snow instead of South, where the tropic warmth dulled winter from a monster to just a beast, but it was the way of the Witchers. They would all return to the Keep before the snow closed the trails, and they would shelter out its force within the Keep, emerging when the snowmelt began to swell rivers and leave scraggly vegetation in its wake. 

Instead of Kaer Morhen, Geralt spurred Roach to the thicket of the Continent, to Massieré. In the midst of the forestry, Massieré was a rich, if relatively small Kingdom, which had kept its nose out of almost every war past. It was a resource-heavy Kingdom and provided lumber, ore, crops and trade to those who surrounded it. Geralt had been a frequent visitor whenever his travels enabled it, especially if he had monster corpses or parts to trade. He'd not been there now for some six or longer years, his Path always seeming to skirt it, even on his journey to winter out in Kear Morhen. They were striding down the forest road that led to its gates when the fell cart came into view before them. He immediately shifted in the saddle; wary, and scented the air. It was a known ploy for robbery, a stuck or fallen cart, or a felled horse. If they were looking to make coin from him, they'd be sorely mistaken. 

Roach plodded onwards, and the thump of her hooves drew the attention of the man teetering into elderly age from where he'd been puttering about uselessly. This close, Geralt could see the issue. The wheel had caved and twisted and the cart had come down atop it. Such a vessel was too heavy for the man to lift alone, and even so, he could not well lift it _and_ re-attach the wheel. "A-ho there!" The man greeted him as he neared, and then paused, clearly latching onto what Geralt was. Out in the open he didn't bother with his heavy cloak and hood, and his hair, eyes and medallion were clear to the light of day. Geralt bared his teeth in a greeting smile and reined Roach to a halt. The man seemed like to reconsider, but breathed a huff. 

"I'm loathe to trouble ye, Ser, but I'm in need of generous help. That damned beast skittered like a colt at a bush bird, n'now I'm sans a wheel for my cart" he man noted, watching as Geralt gathered his reins and dismounted. The old man's horse was a big draught beast, hooves like plates. It seemed as old as the man, its mane and tail greyed at the roots, muzzle whiskery and eyes dull with the perpetual tiredness of age. "My son, you see, he cannot lift it either. No meat on his bones. He's off for a piss in the woods, but he'd good as well stay there". Geralt let his gaze turn as he stroked a gentle hand down the muzzle of the draught, gaze flicking around the outskirts of the woods. As if sensing his suspicion, the old man turned, flinging the blanket from the cart to show its barrels of wheat grain. 

"We've no weapons, and its just the two've us. Though you're like to wrestle a bull, I'd wager. Wouldn't matter if there _were_ more". The old man spat, reached for a clothskin sack on the cart slowly, like Geralt mind stab him for it, and withdrew a piece of silver. "More'n fair, for a few moments of your time and borrowed strength from your arms" the old man bartered, holding out the coin. Geralt gave a low hum and took it, sniffing. It was pure, and he considered for a moment before he tucked the coin away and looped Roach's reins through the harness of the draught. Not for fear of her walking off, but if the draught _was_ a flighty beast, it would have the weight and stubbornness of the mare to slow him down. Geralt moved to the rear of the cart and watched the man gather his tools, before he gripped the rear lip of the cart, steadied his heels in the dirt, and lifted. The old man was right; this was a weight that a single, un-mutated man would struggle to bear, much less if his son was but a boy. 

He held the cart steady as the old man nailed and hammered the wheel back into place, cursing whenever he missed the nail in favour of his thumb. He was tacking the last fixture in place when a lanky young male came loping from the forest to Geralt's left, nimble fingers still lacing up his cloth breeches. He could be no more than twenty-five, and was generically handsome, if a little plain. He had light, chestnut hair and a sloping jaw, a thin lipped but proportioned mouth and walked with the confident swagger of a man who'd never been put in place by someone more able. He had the build of a man who worked with his hands for a living, but was not over-muscled. The boy seemed visibly startled to see Geralt, hands twitching like he wished he had a weapon, before he resumed the confident aura and strolled closer. 

"You needn't have asked for help, Pa. I told you I'd have lifted it for you when I returned" the boy announced, loudly and kindly, and the old man scoffed where he knelt, picking up a nearby pebble and throwing it at the boy. 

"I've already said you couldn't, you useless lout. Put down your feathers - He's more'n a man than you'll ever see". The old man spat again, hammered in the last nail, and rose awkwardly to his feet. Geralt let the cart bear its own weight, and stepped aside. He paid no attention to the scowling son as he made his way to Roach and unlooped her, guiding her to step aside as the old man took grip of the draught's reins and pulled. The dozing beast breathed a snorted huff and took a few reluctant steps forwards. The cart wheel rolled, and held. The old man made an approving, low sound, and turned to Geralt with an appraising look. 

"Not such a bad lot, you Witchers. N'less you're nought but a stand-alone exemplar". It was, Geralt presumed, the closest thing to a compliment the old man would give, and he hummed lowly again in response, turning to tighten Roach's girth where she'd no doubt bloated her stomach out as she stood about. She did not do it often, but it only took a man falling straight back out of the saddle once to learn his lesson. As he worked on the strap, he became aware of the son approaching, steps bold and spaced as the old man set about re-centring the barrels atop the cart. And the Witcher wouldn't have paid the snide little boy any heed, except...

He breathed in. 

His eyes flashed and he twisted, snatched the boy by the collar to his fearful cry and pressed him against Roach's shoulder. She pinned her ears but stood steady, and the boy scrabbled at his hold even though it hurt him none. Geralt stooped, gaze fixing off in the distance as he breathed in again, slowly, steadily. The old man was squawking, scrambling from the cart, but Geralt ignored it in favour of giving a low, threatening snarl, rumbled as any wolf. 

" _Who have you lain with_?" He snarled, holding out a warning hand when the old man shuffled towards them, the tiniest of hunting daggers in his grip. The boy writhed and attempted to spit at him, but only served to drool a wet glob all over his own chest. 

He had the scent of the Prince, but none of his likeness. Not even a change in hair colour could cover the blatant age and difference in structure and stature, yet the boy _reeked_ of the Prince's scent, of sex and release, still ripe over his other exploits and emotions. Geralt breathed it in again, eyelids lowering. He was not mistaken - That sweet scent had aged and lilted with sex, with but was the scent he had held in his lungs for two years gone. 

"I will not harm you" he informed the boy and his father both, releasing him and taking a step back, hands raising to show he was good as his word. "But you bear the scent of a boy I've been looking for". The old man spat, but after a glance to his son, sheathed his blade, muttering curses. The son righted his chemise indignantly, scrubbing his spit with his sleeve and a sneer. 

"I'll not be telling the likes of you, _Witcher_ ".

It was, surprisingly, the old man that responded first. "Ben, you gobshite. There's none to be hiding, I know as good as anyone your preferences in company, and as good as any I know you paid for it, paid more'n any I've ever paid for whore or horse. Half the street saw you swagger out'n that whore house, bragging lies of your talents. I'll not have my head taken by a Witcher because your pride refused him a name". And the old man sounded tired, irritated, a father who had too long dealt with the problems his child brought to his door. The boy sputtered and snapped, but at the raised, warning hand of his sire, scowled at Geralt as he stepped away. 

" _Fine_. He was some whore, a pretty thing, but overpriced" the boy sniffed, wafting a hand like he was an expert on the matter. "Called himself _The Prince_. A fine title for someone who's ass opens like the city gates". His father threw another stone at him, and the boy barely managed to duck it, casting the old man a betrayed expression. 

" _Where_?" Geralt snarled as he tugged Roach's girth taut and hauled himself onto her back. Perhaps it was the timbre of his voice, or the presence of the swords at his back, but the young man sniffed and pointed down the long, winding road. 

"The heart of Massieré, a whorehouse called The Yellow Palace. Ask for Dandelion". 

Geralt observed him closely, but it was no word of a lie, and he reached into his pocket withdrawing the disk of silver and tossing it back to the old man, who caught it warily. 

"Use it to buy your son a cock that'll match his ego" he grumbled, and set his spurs to Roach. She launched into a pace mid-set between a canter and a gallop, leaving the men in the dust of her wake. It was still several hours along the trail before he'd reach the Kingdom's gates, but when the men and their cart were no longer in range, he slowed her to a loping jog, reaching for the pack that bounced along near his knee. He could still smell the prickly sweet scent, and it only echoed when he unlaced the pouch some and ducked his nose to it, breathing in slowly. 

_He'd found the Prince._


End file.
